


In Hearts That Perish

by cuthbert



Category: Vampire Killer | Castlevania: Bloodlines, 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Constructive Criticism Welcome, Gen, In This House Reinhardt Schneider Exists In Canon, Melancholy Queer Longing, Men Crying, Mind Control, Past Relationship(s), References to Dracula - Bram Stoker, Semi-Canonical Character, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Vague References To Walt Whitman's Poetry, assumptions about how the Morris family is linked to the Belmonts, canon-atypical levels of emotional display
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-04-27 03:51:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14417073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuthbert/pseuds/cuthbert
Summary: Dear mid-90s Konami, you can’t just mention a character finally decided he’d be a vampire hunter because his lover got turned and then not use her as a boss at some point like that, what the heck.Or: Several hours' drive from Pisa, Italy, Eric Lecarde's past catches up to him... and she's not happy.(Working title of "why don't we do it in the road" finally replaced with a final one on 5/19/18.)





	1. no one will be watching us/why don't we do it in the road

**Author's Note:**

> A brief disclaimer: this started as an exercise in seeing how well I could imitate the style of Louis L'Amour's pulp adventure stories, combat and all. It started that way, at least.
> 
> If you're here for Passionate Manly Friendship and not an extended fight scene, just wait for chapter two to go up. It's coming, I promise.

The last time this stretch of road had been re-paved, Rome still ruled, probably. Shadows flickered at the edge of his vision, illusions bolstered by the jittering light of headlamps over an uneven old stone road. It was late, and John was exhausted. Not like either of those things was anything new, nowadays, but being crammed behind the wheel of an Italian automobile with both of them added novelty and risk. “Hey. Eric?” The blond at his side stirred briefly, a quiet groan his only response. “C’mon, camerado, I’m startin’ to see double here. Wake up and take over driving.”

With another groan, Eric sat upright, and fussed at his cloak until it was no longer wrapped around him. “Where - how long was I sleeping?” He peered up at the sky, and scowled at how low the moon now hung. “You’ve driven the whole night through.”  
  
“Not all the way through, it’s still dark, isn’t it?”  
  
“ _John._ ”

Even keeping his eyes focused on the road ahead, John could tell when he was the subject of a withering glare. “You were tired,” he protested.

“So are you, we both fought hard!” From the sound of his voice, Eric was ready to start fighting _again_ , and it might have been a real throw-down of an argument but for one of the shadows at the edge of his sight _detaching_ and flowing out into the road maybe thirty feet ahead. John swore and yanked hard on the brake lever, slamming the throttle all the way down as he did. The engine sputtered to a stalled halt as the tires skidded over the paving-stones. Eric barely managed to catch himself against the dash with the haft of his spear, cracking the windscreen.  

John didn’t expect it to really be there, to be something real, but there was a very solid figure in front of them. It was grave-pale, and it hissed as it fled backwards. Evidently, it wasn’t fond of electric lights. Something was out of place here. The creature had been a woman once, that much was obvious from what the black rags hanging off its body left in full view.  A zombie wouldn’t have moved so fluidly, but no self-respecting vampire would be wandering around in shredded clothing like that.

Whatever it was, it had _backed away_ once they’d properly stopped. That spoke of some kind of consciousness. It was hanging back at the edge of the headlamps’ glow, and when it moved, red eyeshine flashed bright. Maybe a mad vampire, then, one whose mind had shattered instead of cleaving cleanly from everything good. Great-grandpa Reinhardt’s bestiary had descriptions of freshly-turned vampires like that, almost-pitiful things that he and Rosa had been forced to -

His train of thought jolted to a halt much like the car had, as Eric sagged back against the bench seat next to him. “No,” he breathed, holding the spear before him as though trying to deflect a blow, hands clenched white-knuckled around the haft. “No, no, no, this can’t be….”

John squinted into the gloom. There was something about the face, he’d been looking towards its _face_ , not the obvious distracting bits. “ _Whatever_ that is over there, it’s not a woman anymore. If that’s what’s got you spooked.”

“No, John. No, it’s worse, I - I did something terrible before we left Segovia,” Eric stammered, slowly shaking his head. He looked terribly sick, and even more terribly sad.

“The hell? That doesn’t explain anything, it’s not like you can make vampires!”

“I tried to _unmake_ one,” he said, and stood, peering intently over the windscreen at the motionless figure before them. “And now she has found us, instead of me finding her.”

As though his voice had cut through whatever fugue the creature before them was wrapped up in, it stepped forward, rolling its head from side to side with feral grace. It extended a hand languidly. “My love,” the vampire called. “At last. It’s been so long, Eric, I was worried… I looked everywhere for you.”

He knew that voice, John realized. It was a rasping, dry mockery of the dulcet tones he’d heard in Paris, but he knew that voice. “Gwendolyn?” he asked, voice cracking under the weight of sudden sick horror. Eric had said he’d taken care of the monster that had begun stalking his city’s streets, had said he’d been injured in the fight and that’d he’d be fine once they made it to Romania. Surely he hadn’t meant that he’d let it escape, or that it was - but what he’d just said, his reaction -

Suddenly, it was focused on him, turning with an exaggerated flounce of its ragged skirt. “Oh!” the creature exclaimed, sounding delighted. He couldn’t help but recoil, and felt a flush of shame creeping up from under his collar. “John, too? Why, it’s almost a party….”

If her acknowledgement weren’t proof enough, the agonized groan that escaped Eric’s throat then would have been. “My God,” John whispered. “Eric, what in God’s name did you _do?_ ”

“I tried to heal her,” he said, “I thought - I thought that because she’d just been turned it would work, and instead… she became _this_ , and I could do nothing to stop her when she fled. God. I swear to you I did _not_ mean to lie, I would have told you but there was no _time_ , and… this is my fight, John. What has happened to her is my fault. Let me be the one to give her rest.”

“I’ve always got your back, you know that,” John said, already pulling the whip free from his belt. He jumped down from the car, trying to look relaxed, like it was four years ago and they had just pulled up on a familiar street in the City of Light, about to sweep the once-a-woman before them off to some absinthe-fueled disaster in Montparnasse. “Gwen?” he asked. “What happened to your dress?”

A bone-dust imitation of a girlish giggle answered him. The vampire sauntered closer, moving with a disturbingly accurate imitation of the grace that its body had possessed in life. “I met some men on the road, and they tried to hassle me,” it answered, attention now thoroughly fixed on him. “Say, Johnny… _you’re_ not going to try and hassle me, are you?”

He was saved from having to answer by Eric finally vaulting from the car, a wild yell cut short when his body struck that which he’d once embraced. Had he miscalculated, or had he intended to tackle it? He’d failed at the latter; all that happened was it stumbled backwards a bit and caught him by the front of his tunic. Close-range combat was _suicidal_ when you were dealing with something stronger than you with fangs, that kind of recklessness was - well, it was exactly like he’d been ten years ago, but he’d grown up since then, learned to fight smarter. Hadn’t he?

“Are you really so eager to die?” not-Gwendolyn asked, digging its fingers into Eric’s wrist until he dropped his spear. “I know, I know, I want to be together again, too, but you could at least _pretend_ you were still a good Christian, my darling… it’d make this more fun.”

John cursed, whirling the whip above his head, cracking it, trying to distract her to no avail. “Hey! You just gonna leave me out in the cold, then!?”

“Oh, Johnny. Oh, _Johnny._ Summer’s been over _forever_ ,” the vampire said, not even looking at him. It was getting harder by the moment not to think of it as Gwendolyn, especially with a statement like that. It - she - _it_ stroked Eric’s face, keeping their eyes locked. He tried to thrash away, or it looked like he did, but it was an awkward and feeble effort. Why wasn’t he grabbing her wrist? Why was he -

And then she gently set Eric down, and John knew exactly why. He’d miscalculated, all right. They both had. It had been so long since either of them had seen a vampire use its native powers of mesmerism that they’d both completely forgotten such a thing could happen. Briefly, he considered re-starting the car and running her down, then dismissed it. There was no time to crank the engine and then jump back in, and anyway Eric would have him skewered before he got halfway to reaching for the lever. He’d knelt and grabbed his spear while John was thinking, and now he stood with it leveled at his chest.  
  
His face was blank, almost slack, like he was asleep with his eyes open. “ _Mi alma_ ,” he said, sounding almost drunk, “don’t worry. This time, I’ll protect you!”

“Eric, what the hell?! It’s _me!_ ” John shouted, dodging to one side as Eric lunged towards him, obviously hell-bent on murder.

He _laughed,_ high and clear and crazed, and his face didn’t match the sound. “You think I can’t see through your illusions, you bitch? How _dare_ you wear his face!” He feinted low, and then swung the spear swiftly around, aiming for John’s head.

John jerked to his left, dodging as much as he could. He hissed in pain as the spear’s blade sliced across the shell of his ear. His shoulder slammed against the side of the car, and he cursed under his breath. If he’d been smart about this he’d have gotten away from it, but there was no time for that now. It was all he could do to throw his arm up and around the shaft of the spear before Eric jerked it back.

He let himself be pulled forward, running with his head down, using the spear as a guide. There was an audible crunch as his head struck Eric’s face; he’d definitely broken his nose. It would have staggered him if he’d been in his right mind, but bewitched as he was, he didn’t seem to register the pain. His knee shot up, and John crumpled, sparing a moment’s thought to be grateful that had been a shot aimed at his gut and not his groin.

Sparing another moment for another thought was out of the question. There was a spearhead coming down at him, and it was all he could do to roll out of the way - right, then left, then right again, and that second time he managed to roll far enough to curl up into an awkward crouch. He lashed out with the whip. It was far from the best shot he could have taken, but it was enough to catch Eric’s legs and _yank_ , toppling him.

His head hit the road with a heavy, solid thud, and John could only pray he hadn’t just killed his best friend. The vampire _screamed_ , and then _she_ was upon him, all claws and kicking feet, a dark parody of the dancer she’d once been. Inhuman strength aside, she was still a good foot shorter than he was; he managed to shove her back with one hand, brandishing the whip with the other. Eldritch fire blazed around it, searing undead flesh while it left John’s skin unscathed.

She recoiled, and then his vision blurred. He hadn’t made eye contact, it couldn’t be hypnosis - how were there _four_ of her? He edged sideways, felt a clawed hand scrape across his back, and whirled too late. No matter where the whip hit, it wasn’t really her. There had to be some rhyme or reason to this, some pattern. Vampires were creatures known for that. He just had to figure out what it was.

He squinted at the shapes whirling around him, pivoting, trying to dodge strikes he couldn’t see coming. She couldn’t keep it up nonstop, not even the oldest vampires could maintain something like this without a pause once every few moments. Soon, soon she’d have to drop it, and then he’d know where to strike - _there!_ His arm flashed up, but before he could do more than that, a searing pain across his shoulder made him flinch, almost dropping the whip.

He turned, and saw Eric had regained his footing. He wasn’t even swaying, and he’d only withdrawn the spear to ready it for another strike; John barely managed to knock it aside with a bracer-clad forearm. He snapped the whip back and up, wrapping it around his left arm, and pulled the bowie knife at his belt from its scabbard with his right hand. He’d be clumsy, but at least with this he had a blade as well, something to block sharpened steel with better than boiled leather.

There was no time to think, then, only time to act. He blocked the next thrust with the flat of his knife, knocking it aside with a few sparks, but he couldn’t quite dodge as Eric whipped the spear around his body and struck at John’s own. Pain blossomed along his ribs, and he realized he had to close the distance between them. There’d be no winning this if he couldn’t, and his back was open to whatever the vampire had planned. He surged forwards, and this time as Eric reeled back, he was ready. When the spear darted forward, his knife caught against one of its “wings”, and he used the locked blades to force him back even farther.

He should have known it wouldn’t be so easy - Eric’s face showed emotion, for the first time since the vampire had released him. He sneered, and suddenly the spear simply wasn’t there, it was whirling around again, and that same sharp perpendicular point he’d had his knife against a moment before slashed the side of his face. There was nothing for it but to keep moving forwards, forcing Eric back towards the car. He didn’t seem to realize he was being backed up to it.

The spear flashed away, again, Eric feinted towards his chest and then darted the point down towards his legs. He hopped, awkwardly dodging, and kicked the haft with enough force to swing it outwards, giving him room to press forward again, slashing wildly at Eric’s arms. He drew blood, finally, but the cut was longer than it was deep, and he still didn’t release the spear. Instead, he swung low, striking at John’s shins with the haft now that the blade was behind him and he didn’t have the space to draw back.

John made a mistake then, simply stepping over the spear and leaning forwards, intending to shove Eric back against the hood of the car and disarm him once he was winded. He didn’t clear both his feet. The blow of the spear-haft slammed up against his groin sent him collapsing forwards, slamming Eric against the metal behind him with far more force than he’d intended. The wind rushed from his lungs with a noise almost a rattle, and he fell slack against the now-dented hood of the car; half-blinded by pain, John dropped his knife and seized the spear, tossing it away.

He couldn’t focus on the pain, he had to stop the vampire from killing them both. He lurched back around, forcing himself to stay upright, and was rewarded with a perfectly clear singular image of a dead woman within reach of his whip. She’d stopped with the illusions, stopped to watch them fight. There was a horrible parallel to some of the time they’d spent in Paris there. He uncoiled the whip and cracked it, lashing out and striking her across the chest. He’d aimed for her face, but he’d take what he could get. She was backing away now, letting him chase her, giving him more space between himself and Eric should he recover again.

It was the chance John had needed. He got as close as he dared, and threw the whip around her waist, yanking her towards him. Her wrists were as delicate as they’d ever been, and he seized them in his right hand, flicking the whip free and then quickly binding her wrists with it, forcing them behind her head. She snarled, trying to bite at his hands as he did so, and kicked, but compared to the pain he was already in it was nothing. He turned her around, holding her away from him and continuing to tangle the whip around her wrists; she thrashed wildly, but couldn’t break free.

This was a predicament, all right. He had her pinned, but in such a way that he couldn’t finish her off. There was nothing for it but to hope that last stunning blow had knocked some sense back into his partner. Ignoring how it made the cut at the side of his chest even more painful, John took a deep breath, and howled out Eric’s name, begging him to wake up.  


\---  


Everything hurt and everything smelled of blood. He could barely draw breath, and what he managed was accompanied by a horrid sound like the cry of a wounded beast. His nose hurt especially badly, and it didn’t seem to be sitting quite right on his face. Eric couldn’t figure out how he’d come to be lying against the side of the car’s hood, the last he remembered was lunging out over it, and then the vampire’s face - _Gwendolyn’s_ face. Not her face, yet still her face, distorted by death and evil and the madness that was his fault, and such eyes in that face as he’d never seen up close before -

He couldn’t move, his entire back and chest hurt and he still couldn’t breathe without making horrible sounds, and John was shouting. Gwendolyn was screaming. That was what had awakened him. He couldn’t _move_ \- but he _had_ to move, he couldn’t just lay here like this. Not when all this was his fault. His spine felt like it was half-shattered, but he forced himself up and away from the car.

His tunic tried to stay behind, dried blood having glued it in place. He didn’t know how long he’d been stunned, but that was a bad sign. He tried to kneel, tried to find where his weapon had landed. He fell onto his hands and knees, his breath still a series of wounded-animal moans, but he was lucky. As though drawn to it, his hands found the Alucard Spear. He used his birthright to lever himself from the ground like an old man with a cane, and wrenched himself all the way upright.

“Eric, you’re _you,_ right?!” John shouted, voice high and strained with fear and effort. He had Gwendolyn tangled in the whip, her arms pinned behind her head in such a way that her chin was forced down. She flailed wildly against his grasp, kicking at his legs, but he stood firm, keeping her at arm’s length. “For God’s sake, I can’t hold this much longer! If you loved her, _strike now!_ ”

The spear in his hands felt lighter, somehow, as though it knew it was about to be used to free a soul from damnation. Eric stumbled forward, caught himself, and dashed close before stopping and letting the spear carry on. He scarcely had to put any weight behind it. The blade struck true, splitting flesh and bone and the briefly resistant toughness he knew to be the vampire’s heart. Gwendolyn - _not_ Gwendolyn, _the vampire_ screeched, a desperate defeated sound, and fell silent only as he pulled the blade free. In the instant before her form began to dissipate, he glimpsed a change in her expression. Warmth returned to those cold, mad eyes. Her lips moved, soundlessly, already fading away.

With a wordless cry, he dropped the spear, trying to catch hold of her in the moments before she vanished. He couldn’t even do that much; he was left holding the rags that had once been her wedding dress, that had instead become her burial gown. The tattered silk slipped from his hands, and a ragged sob tore its way from his throat. He folded and fell as though he’d been stabbed in the gut, and above him, John stood helpless. He could hear him shift nervously, likely coiling Vampire Killer and hanging it back at his belt. Eric didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything, could only lie there in a crumpled heap, wrenching near-silent sobs shaking him as though he were being kicked.

She was gone. She was free. He was still here. He was still trapped by fate. He had brought Bartley - _Bathory_ \- into their lives, thinking a patron with so much money to throw at his work would be enough to free him from his family’s demands, and instead he had lost everything but his family’s traditional calling. “Damn it,” he said, slamming a fist against the road like a child. “Damn it all to hell!”

John still said nothing, but walked closer. Then he must have knelt down, for there was a hand on Eric's shoulder, then, and the haft of his spear was nudged against the heel of his hand not clenched into a fist. It took a few moments and more than a few tries before he could move; it seemed that curling up in a graceless ball on the ground had managed to make every part of him that had been involved in the fighting scream and freeze. He sat back, knees bent, and for a few seconds let himself lean just barely back against the gentle hand that had slid to the middle of his back as he rose.

He couldn’t linger with that touch, couldn’t let himself fall into something so kind, not now. “Stand back,” he choked out, and he was grateful that John knew him well enough to do so without protest or question. He drew a deep breath, and extended a hand towards the ruined dress before him. When he spoke again, it was in neither Spanish nor English, but the battered Greek of an old grimoire: “ _God of Heaven and Earth, Lord of all the Planetary Spirits, grant unto me your sacred fire._ ” Flames danced forth from his fingertips, and in moments there was nothing before him but ashes. He stood, again using the spear as a lever to help himself up. There was nothing left, now, truly.  

Nothing but the road, and the last of the night. This was what he’d wanted as a boy, wasn’t it?

Wasn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware that hypnosis isn't really a Castlevania vampire thing, but given that VK/Bloodlines/The New Generation is That Game What Tries To Pull Bram Stoker's Book Into The Canon, I figured it'd fit well enough here. John's knife, which I know he does not have in-game, is a direct reference to Quincey's weapon of choice in That Book. I know Eric's not a caster in Bloodlines, but by Portrait of Ruin he's apparently a mage of sufficient skill to teach... he had to start somewhere.
> 
> My concept for Gwendolyn was "sort of a warm-up for Bathory/Bartley - no magic but for the illusions and the ability to sic whoever 'isn't being controlled by the player' on the character who 'is'". As to what she was like in life, and what exactly Eric did in Segovia to make her all... Drusilla-y... I'm working on it.
> 
> I'm also aware that my interpretation of John as a near complete opposite of his son shows through only a bit in this, and that it probably contradicts most folks' ideas about him. Again, I referred back to novel-canon Quincey Morris as an inspiration - Lucy describes him as highly educated and only using slang around close friends (especially her because she finds it endearing). I have fic in progress that explores my version of John a bit more, but 'til that's uploaded (and it might be a while), suffice it to say he's exactly the kind of Walt Whitman fan you'd expect a somewhat overeducated man built to break doors down to be.


	2. let's clear the smoky air between us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all over but the crying... and oh God, there is crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My other notes on Gwendolyn, scribbled on a scrap of paper and later tucked into my notebook: "WHAT IF SHE WAS THEIR LUCY, THO". 
> 
> And yet somehow this still turned out far gayer than initially intended, and the prose went downright aubergine. This is your warning, small corner of a small corner of fandom, that there's men nearly kissing in this.

Time kept moving, as it always did.

A breeze picked up, scattering the ashes that had been a wedding dress. The two men on the road both shifted, then, uncertain of where to go next or what to do. Finally, one broke the silence in a way that seemed more awkward than simply letting it be. “Let me get your nose for you. It’s my fault, anyway, I should - ”

“ _I can do it myself._ ”

“Eric, be reasonable. The last time you set your nose by yourself, you puked on me right after.”

“The last time you saw me set my own broken nose I was _fifteen_ , John!” He grimaced, and hissed in pain at the way that had shifted the still-bleeding mess at the center of his face. With an exaggeratedly sharp set of gestures, he fished his handkerchief from where it had been tucked behind his belt, and cleared as much from his nose as he could. Even a gentle exhale hurt; blowing out the accumulated blood was enough to make him hiss.

Finally, he braced himself, and braced his hands around his nose, and _wrenched_. The noise was worse than the pain, or at least that was what he told himself, as he had every time before, swallowing hard and trying to ignore the black-and-silver sparkles dancing at the edges of his vision. “Does it look right?” he asked, voice cracking as though he were again that boy who’d disgraced himself.

He wasn’t expecting John to walk right up next to him, nor for him to take his chin in one hand and peer into his face like he was inspecting something precious. It took a few moments of squinting, and gently turning Eric’s face from side to side, but finally it seemed he was satisfied. “Looks like you got it lined right back up where it’s meant to go,” he said with a nod. He didn't let his hand fall away, and then he sighed. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I've cut you full of holes, let me fix that before we talk,” Eric replied, jerking his chin up and stepping back a pace. The yellowish light from the car’s headlamps cast strange shadows on John’s face, making his cheekbones seem even sharper, his face seem hollow and drawn. He looked like a man nearly dead. A strange feeling of prescience seized Eric, a horrible certainty that this wouldn’t be the first time he saw his friend’s face so drawn and pained.

John stepped towards him, standing properly in the light; while the shadows vanished then, the pain on his face stayed. “You’re not running away from this. Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“For the same reason Mister Stoker and my father were reluctant to tell yours what had become of poor Miss Lucy,” Eric said. His head ached terribly, a double-time beat of throbbing pain from the back of his skull and his freshly set nose overwhelming every other injury. “I know you don’t remember, but Father just wanted to let everyone pretend she’d gone to her rest as would any other drained victim.”

“And then she took me, so he couldn’t,” John said slowly. He’d been barely two years old, then, to Eric’s five. Neither of them could remember much of that terrible year, but they’d both been raised with the story. “I don’t need you to protect me anymore, damn it. I need you to trust me.”

His words struck home, and Eric closed his eyes, squeezed them tightly shut, as though it would erase the strange and hollow look of John’s face in the shadows from his mind. “It was not out of mistrust, John. I thought, much as my father did, that I could handle the matter myself. I did drive her from the city, I did not fail my people, but I failed _her_ , and with that I… I could not tell you.”  

“ _Bullshit_ ,” John snarled, his hands curling into fists at his sides. The way he grimaced made the cut across his cheek gape, spilling more blood. “I was there for her funeral, Eric. I was going to forget all about what we all did in Paris and stand there while the two of you got married! You think I wouldn’t have understood not being able to stand seeing her die twice in the same week? _God!_ ” By the time he’d finished speaking he stood with fists half-raised, as though his own enraged grief was something he could drive away with them. He froze, the rage visibly draining from him, and then turned away, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning his face upwards. “God,” he said again, softly this time, almost pleading. He let his gaze fall from the sky after a moment more.

It hurt, to see those broad shoulders slumped in defeat. “Please. Just let me heal you up, and we can be on our way, and we can talk about this when we’re both rested.” When he was being the voice of reason, Eric reflected, something had gone seriously wrong. What hadn’t gone wrong tonight, though? Was this direct payback for stealing a car from a mangled corpse?

“Fix yourself up first,” John said, not turning back to face him. His voice was soft and oddly strangled. “I’m fine.”

“ _Bullshit_ ,” Eric replied, tossing his own curse back at him pitch and all. He would fix what he had done whether it was welcome or not. “In nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti, deleat te vulnos,” he sang, left hand aimed palm-first at John’s back, “Deus filius, deleat te vulnos. Spiritus sanctus, deleat te vulnos.”

“Can’t you do what I ask just once?!” he demanded, straightening up as the spell hit. “God damn it, for once in your life think of yourself first! Not your pride, not your family name, just you!” He turned around, then, swiping a hand across his eyes, and stared wild-eyed at Eric like a man faced by a ghost. “I could have killed you twice tonight, I… I was worried that I _had,_ for a minute there.” His gesture hadn’t been quite effective; tears still cut tracks through the blood on his face. Its source had closed, at least, that spell not being quite powerful enough to erase wounds.

“John, I - ”

“ _Don’t_. Let me speak. I’m no good with words unless I’m writing them down… they gave me a degree for that, not for talkin’ all pretty and refined.” The smile he flashed then was crooked and half-hearted, self-effacing humor mixed with reluctance to reopen the slash across his cheek. “I can’t do this alone. I’m not a Belmont, I’m not even half of one.” He paused, and the grave expression on his face made the words seem a lie.

There was a portrait of Simon Belmont in the library at home, one Eric had sketched studies of almost obsessively. It hadn’t been done from life; the documents tracing its provenance spoke to the man’s grandson having told the artist what to paint. But it was vivid, lifelike, and seeing John now the resemblance was unmistakable. The set of his jaw, the sharp cheekbones and haunted eyes, even the band at his brow and the fall of his hair over the top of it - he was Belmont enough, surely, for anything.

As though he’d heard that thought, John shook his head. “I don’t _want_ to do this alone. I feel sometimes like this is… like I’m not going to get that happy ending from the stories no matter what I do. I don’t want to fight alone, I especially don’t want to fight other human beings, I want...” He bit his lower lip, worrying at it until Eric was sure he was about to draw blood. “I want it to be four years ago, again. I want to walk out of a theater between you and Gwen with my arms around you both, again, I want to wake up in your studio with a headache, again, I want to go _back_ there again and we can’t - we can’t _ever_ \- ” His voice broke, and he covered his face with his hands. “God!” he cried, yet again.

“He has gathered her to His side,” Eric said, “if anything we have been taught is true.” It was hard to believe. The words felt empty, like ashes blown into his mouth, and ignored Purgatory. The only certain truth was that now she was among the dead. His Gwendolyn, his muse, his other soul was dead. It was nothing unique these days. So many people were dead, now, but she had been unique, and it was not fair that she was dead among so many others that it seemed unremarkable.

This was what it had been like, all those years ago, wasn’t it. Grief, and the night, and blood all over all of them. The churchyard at Kingstead must have been so desolate as this road. It must have been, for five men to enter a tomb and fight what they found in it without someone catching them at it. Stoker’s novel was a bastardized, scrambled version of events, worthless if he wanted to know what any one of the men who had been there truly felt as they faced down what had been a woman they’d all cared for. For the moment, Eric would have settled for knowing he wasn’t alone in feeling lost, now that the horrible task was done.

 

\---

 

It wasn’t enough to be exhausted or in pain, now John felt nauseous from trying to hold back tears. He hated it, but he knew better than to dwell on that. Hate really would make him sick, knock him right over with a headache, and that was the last mess they needed to deal with right now. “Don’t talk to me about Heaven,” he said in a rough, low tone, aware he’d left Eric’s words hanging for too long. He grimaced behind his hands, and sighed, rubbing at his face. “That came out wrong. Just… just fix yourself up, for pete’s sake. We’re a couple hours outside Genoa, we can… you’re right, we can talk about this when we’re both rested.”

It wasn’t that he was really convinced Eric _was_ right, not really. And it wasn’t that he was admitting defeat. He was just tired, now, exhausted, worn to the bone. He’d thought he was tired earlier, before that fight? Plainly he hadn’t known what tired _was_ just then. A flash of heat swept through him just as he moved to step towards the car, followed swiftly by a chill, and he stumbled.

Warm hands caught him, and he supposed that clattering noise was a certain spear hitting the ground. Eric had darted forward and kept him from falling, even as bashed up as he was. “I’ll drive,” he said, his brows furrowed.

They’d have to talk about this later, John knew. It would be terribly awkward. He didn’t care. He reached up, covering Eric’s hands with his own where they lay against his shoulders. “Don’t leave me,” he said. “Don’t you leave me too.” It wasn’t what he meant to say, not really. It was what he’d meant to say months ago, after the tomb was closed, there in the cemetery in Segovia. He’d been too afraid, then. He’d settled for a hand on Eric’s shoulder, settled for sinking down with him as he collapsed, settled for only half embracing him as he shook. He could have done better, this time, and he still hadn’t.

“John?”

“Gwen’s gone, and I don’t want to lose you too.” Don’t go where I can’t follow, he wanted to say. Don’t die before I do. The words didn’t make it out of his mouth, dying somewhere in his throat. He’d closed his eyes, unable to meet his friend’s concerned stare; he forced them back open, and found himself arrested by the iron-blue gaze he found waiting. A horribly reckless urge to do something he could never take back seized him, even as bloodied as they both were.

But this was not Paris. He was no longer eighteen and drunk on Whitman and Housman and under-watered absinthe. He couldn’t let himself pretend otherwise. He settled for leaning forward and pressing his forehead to Eric’s own, tilting his face so their noses didn’t mash up against each other. It was almost a kiss. It wasn’t enough, it would never be enough, but it was close. He could hear Eric’s breath catch in his throat as he did it, and felt him try to pull away; he kept his hands where they were, refusing to let him go. “Please, just….”

His voice trailed off. He felt helpless. All the strength of his body (which, if he were honest, didn’t feel like all that much at the moment) and what strength of mind and of will that he possessed, and he couldn’t combine them and make himself understood in the moment where it was necessary. The moment passed soon enough, chased away by another sweep of hot and cold and the wave of exhaustion that followed after. “Sorry,” he said, dropping his hands down and stepping back. He couldn’t meet Eric’s eyes again, and crouched to retrieve the spear, and then offered it up. “You shouldn’t’ve had to do that. I’m sorry.”

“John, what are you _apologizing_ for?” Eric took the spear, but didn’t back away or turn to crank the engine. Instead, he knelt down, and with his free hand brushed John’s hair back from his eyes, turning his face towards him. “Are we pretending nothing happened in Paris, now?”

“I thought that was what you wanted.” His voice was small, petulant, awful. He sounded like a sulking child. Probably looked it, too, brows furrowed and eyes limned with tears. “You were going to marry her. I got a girl back home I might as well marry, if I make it back. We aren’t - we can’t be boys playin’ around anymore.”

“Perhaps we can’t,” Eric said, his expression falling from concern to pain. “But that doesn’t… you are my oldest and dearest friend. I can’t stand seeing you like this.” His hand was still at the side of John’s face, his thumb resting at his cheekbone.

“It _hurts_ ,” John forced out through clenched teeth. “Seein’ you hurt because of me.” He wasn’t talking simply about the blows he’d dealt, and he knew the double meaning was plain. He felt Eric’s thumb brush something from beneath his eye, and he bowed his head, pulling away. It ached, but he couldn’t let himself be soft, not now. He couldn’t linger. “Just get yourself fixed up, all right? I can’t _take_ this much longer.”

What he meant by “this”, even he wasn’t sure. It could have been staying in the road where they’d fought, or it could have been his every glance at Eric’s face showing plain what he’d done, making clear what lines he’d crossed and come too close to crossing. Lines they’d both crossed, he amended, crossed and then gone back over, such as they could. He kept his head bowed as he heard Eric run though the Latin words from before, clenched his jaw and said nothing at all.

He wasn’t expecting to have his hair ruffled like he was a damned kid, but that snapped him out of the bleak place his thoughts were headed, even as he still refused to look up. “Do you remember that time well, John? When I was fifteen and nearly ruined your boots.”

“I damn near ruined your _face_ , I earned it,” he said. “But so did you. Whip this, spear that, like neither of us counted for anything but what our family handed down… sure, I remember. You scared the hell out of me.”

When John looked up at him, Eric’s face was grave. “I may frighten you again, then,” he said. “I want to mourn, yet... I want to have time to grieve, I would… but neither of us can, John. We cannot stop here, we cannot even slow down. We each have a duty to the bloodlines we carry, we must fulfill the task we have been given.” He stood, and extended a hand down.

It was an easy out in more ways than one. John took it, and pulled himself upright, and refused to let go. "Don't let that task kill you," he said. 

"Only if you'll promise the same." He stared at John until he nodded, and then moved to pull away, again. This time John let him, and let him guide him around the car once he'd cranked the engine into a loud-sputtering idle, let him drape his cloak around shoulders almost too broad for it. He was too tired to resist, and after all, Eric had said he'd take over the driving. 

They'd talk in Genoa. They'd clean up, and rest, and talk, and spend a few days trying to figure out how to chase Bartley - Bathory - _the monster who meant to raise Dracula_ into Germany itself. How they'd get a hotel room looking like they'd just walked off a battlefield, he didn't know. Maybe they'd have to stop and wash off. It hurt to think too much about anything, it took too much work. He didn't want to think about what had happened, didn't want to revisit the tension he'd revived. This battle had ended in victory, sort of. They'd freed Gwendolyn to pass on as she should have, they'd killed another vampire. He ought to have been satisfied with that, but he wasn't.

It had been a victory that felt like a loss, and while he'd never say so aloud, John was terrified that this wouldn't be the only win that felt so cold.

 

 

 

 

_If truth in hearts that perish_

_Could move the powers on high,_

_I think the love I bear you_

_Should make you not to die._

_Sure, sure, if steadfast meaning,_

_If single thought could save,_

_The world might end to-morrow,_

_You should not see the grave._

_-A.E. Housman_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that I made it clear enough what my concept of the novel "Dracula" existing in-verse is, but if I didn't... what was fought in 1897 and killed Quincy Morris was not Count Dracula, but another un-dead from the same region. Bram Stoker attached Dracula's name to his novel based on the events of that year to attach the infamy of extant legends involving the Belmonts to it. (Henry Irving still thought it was godawful.) Van Helsing isn't just Stoker's self-insert character in this timeline: he's a composite of Quincy Morris, his friend Xavier Lecarde, and, yes, the author himself. 
> 
> If you're still reading - thank you for sticking through to the end of this with me. It's the first time I've managed to complete a piece of writing this long in over a decade! I hope I didn't disappoint.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm aware that hypnosis isn't really a Castlevania vampire thing, but given that VK/Bloodlines/The New Generation is That Game What Tries To Pull Bram Stoker's Book Into The Canon, I figured it'd fit well enough here. John's knife, which I know he does not have in-game, is a direct reference to Quincey's weapon of choice in That Book. I know Eric's not a caster in Bloodlines, but by Portrait of Ruin he's apparently a mage of sufficient skill to teach... he had to start somewhere.
> 
> My concept for Gwendolyn was "sort of a warm-up for Bathory/Bartley - no magic but for the illusions and the ability to sic whoever 'isn't being controlled by the player' on the character who 'is'". As to what she was like in life, and what exactly Eric did in Segovia to make her all... Drusilla-y... I'm working on it.
> 
> I'm also aware that my interpretation of John as a near complete opposite of his son shows through only a bit in this, and that it probably contradicts most folks' ideas about him. Again, I referred back to novel-canon Quincey Morris as an inspiration - Lucy describes him as highly educated and only using slang around close friends (especially her because she finds it endearing). I have fic in progress that explores my version of John a bit more, but 'til that's uploaded (and it might be a while), suffice it to say he's exactly the kind of Walt Whitman fan you'd expect a somewhat overeducated man built to break doors down to be.


End file.
